


Side Effects

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, decepticam AU, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vortex crashes on a deserted little planet in the middle of nowhere. But he isn't alone, and his strange situation brings with it a very intriguing opportunity.</p><p><b>Content advice:</b> slash, hand fetish, damage/repair fetish (kinda), accidental tactile, Vortex’s dirty mind, dubcon (cocercion), and explicit sticky, tactile and energy field smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Vortex had no memory of the crash.

He came online to the ship’s distress beacon. It pinged in his HUD, echoing the intense bitter sting pulsing through the rest of his body. Pain responses – discomfort to anyone else’s receptors, but to his they were fascinating. A mosaic of sensation: the furthest he could get from the Detention Centre.

He ran a scan of his own systems – damaged, depleted; he wouldn’t move far without help – then his immediate environment: rocks, more rocks, and a complete absence of spaceship.

He hefted himself onto his back, innards aching and his rotors squidging in a muddy mix of the planetoid’s native soil and his own spilled energon. Stars twinkled above, and a rime of frost began to form on the cooler parts of his armour.

When he was as comfortable as he was going to get, he sent a wireless request for access to the ship’s flight log.

At least there was enough of the ship left to gain access from. And frag, it was funny. Stupid thing got caught in some kind of weather anomaly – Vortex neither understood nor cared enough to try – and ended up splattered across the side of a mountain.

It must have ejected him before impact. That or he’d launched himself out; one of the many benefits of being able to fly.

He couldn’t help but laugh. So what if he was stranded on some slag-forsaken planetoid in the middle of nowhere? It’d teach Onslaught a valuable lesson about not forcing copters to pilot spacecraft when they really didn’t want to.

Besides, the emergency beacon had been going for a good few joors now; Blast Off would come get him. Eventually.

* * *

A few joors later, and the planetoid’s three moons had risen, but Blast Off hadn’t showed up. There were, however, signs of life. Two energy signatures, both Autobot, and they were getting closer.

One spoke; “I wouldn't if I were you.”

Vortex remained still. Faking unconsciousness was easy enough, but putting a name to the voice was harder.

“Look at him,” the second mech said. “I can't just leave him there.”

“Yes,” the first replied. “You _really_ can.”

“Groove…”

“No!” the first snapped. Then a pause and a sigh, and Vortex could imagine that little brown and white frame quivering with indecision. “All right, I know, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Groove, it’s not just that. It’s the crystals. My jet pack’s scrap, and I can’t mend it. We’ll never reach them without someone who can fly.”

This time, the silence stretched. Vortex focused on the flow of air over his tail rotors. The second voice had to be the medic; tasty.

Eventually, Groove spoke. “I can’t see him helping,” he said. “Even if you fix him.”

“He’s stranded here too,” First Aid replied, and Vortex fought not to twitch as one of the ‘bots knelt beside him.

“His team isn’t like ours,” the medic continued, his voice so very close. “There probably isn’t anyone coming for him. And he’s all alone.”

Another sigh. “All right,” Groove said. “But I’m taking his weapons.”

Vortex didn’t allow himself to react. He let it happen, lost for a moment in the tentative press of small, grounder hands on his forearms. His Gatling guns disengaged with a click and a hiss, leaving behind only a strange lightness. He had no idea where his glue gun was.

“I’ll take these to the big fella,” Groove said. “You be careful, Aid.”

“I will,” First Aid replied. There was another pause, and the medic neither touched Vortex nor spoke again until his team mate’s footsteps had faded. Then, “I know you’re awake,” he said.

“Is it that obvious?” Vortex brought his optics online, and wow, what a view. “You’re cute,” he commented, as though it was something he’d only just noticed. “Will your team mate be gone for long?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” First Aid said. He ran his hands over Vortex’s abdomen, pressing lightly on the metal; Vortex’s engine revved. “You heard us talking,” First Aid continued, completely failing to acknowledge that he’d prompted any physical response. “I’ll be up-front with you. You aren’t leaving here alone, but that isn’t something you don’t already know. I can repair you, but we need something from you in return.”

“The two of you? Sure.” Vortex grinned, and retracted his battered face mask. He treated First Aid to a suggestive grin. “Omega Supreme too, if you got any high grade.”

First Aid stared at Vortex’s mid-section. “We need you to fly one of us across the gorge to access a fuel source particular to this planet. We need it to break atmosphere.”

Well, that solved the mystery of the ‘big fella’; it was always nice when he was right. “Then what?” Vortex asked.

“Then we leave,” First Aid replied. “We’ll drop you off at a suitable neutral zone.” Gently, he nudged Vortex’s arm aside and probed the edges of a long and ragged tear; the contact stung. “You can have your weapons back once you’ve disembarked. Until then, we act according to the interplanetary code regarding ceasefires. Is that acceptable?”

Vortex wriggled, trying to press those fingers harder against the damage. When that failed, he made a show of thinking about the offer.

Damn, the medic was nicely built. Good colours, fine paint job; not pristine, but the scratches were small and everyday, and glittered in the stark light from the planetoid’s newly risen moons. And those optics… All Autobottish innocence with a tough streak a mile wide. Sure, the ‘bot wasn’t really a fighter – the incident with Swindle had taught everyone that – but he wasn’t weak either. Steady hands and steady principles; getting a rise out of him would be a challenge.

“Sure,” Vortex said. He could always get Blast Off to pick him up somewhere else. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m performing a secondary assessment,” First Aid replied. “I’m checking for any damage I might have missed with my initial scans.” There was something about his voice too, a kind patience which seemed programmed in; making that come over all staticky would be a wonderful thing indeed. “You might want to desensitise visual input for a moment, I need a better light.” First Aid waited until Vortex had dimmed his optics before turning on his headlamps. “Goodness,” he said. “That must have been some crash.”

“Heh, you should see the ship,” Vortex said. He squirmed as the medic’s hands knocked sparks from severed wires. It was enough to bring his core temperature back up, the frost burning from his armour in ghostly plumes.

“I’m certain I don’t want to,” First Aid said. He worked as he talked, easing apart tangled cables, and removing shards of metal and plastic and glass. “I hope there was no-one else on board.”

“Nah, just me.” Vortex tried to lean up, craning to see. He managed to get his elbows to support him before First Aid gently but firmly pushed him back down.

“We’ll have none of that,” the medic said, his hands leaving little smears of blackened energon on Vortex’s shoulders. “I need you to lay still.”

“You could always cuff me?” Vortex suggested, then gasped as a sunburst of intense, liquid heat radiated out through his sensor net. “Mmmmmmmph! Oh Sigma…”

“I’m sorry,” First Aid said. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me warning you it was going to hurt, being a big tough Decepticon and all.”

“Mmmhuh?” Vortex cut all optical input, his attention turned inwards. He could visualise those tiny, pale hands wrapped around his vital parts, slick with hydraulic fluid and glistening with oil. Things slid around, prompting a beautiful jumble of synaesthetic input as First Aid probed and prodded, reuniting connectors and isolating damaged components. Vortex’s gyros danced, and his CPU appeared to spin, as giddy a ride as if he’d launched himself into a tornado.

Dimly, he heard the Protectobot say something about it going to sting, and _frag_ did it sting, a glorious hot grating that started somewhere near his engine’s output shaft and wound its way along his rotors and back again. His blades tingled, each sensor sparking in the energon mud, each jolt of current going straight to his interface array. His circuits blazed, his chassis heating steadily.

Vortex brought his optics back online. It was a struggle to stay still, to resist the urge to grab the medic and pull him close. It was so hard to keep his spike in its casing, and his rotor blades from quivering in the muck. His tail rotors vibrated, clattering against his arm, and yet somehow First Aid managed to ignore it all.

The Protectobot retrieved various instruments from compartments on his arms. He applied them with a practiced grace, slow and careful, oblivious to everything but his task, never rushing.

Vortex heaved air through the vents on his helm, and the undamaged vent above his left hip, but it did nothing to cool his heated circuits.

And watching First Aid at work did nothing to prevent the charge from building. Unsurprisingly, it had the opposite effect. Everything about the ‘bot was a temptation. The moonlight gleaming from that smooth, touchable paintwork; the subtle glow from his optics and the tension in his frame as he knelt in the mud, leaning over Vortex, sparks flying in the chill air.

The medic’s hand brushed the outer casing of Vortex’s laser core, and his primary fuel pump stalled.

“Nearly done,” First Aid said.

 _I sure am_ , Vortex thought, as a small burst of excess energy discharged itself through his EM field. His transformation seams tingled and his connectors ached, but First Aid seemed completely unaffected.

Just one more jolt, that was all he needed. One more tiny flare of incandescent pleasure-pain, one more pulse of sensation searing its way to his interface circuits and boom! The overwhelming glory of overload, and all at the hands of one very hot little grounder medic who had absolutely no idea the effect he was having.

Just one more…

“OK, done,” First Aid said happily. He closed Vortex’s chestplates and straightened up, his battle mask moving as though he was about to say something else. But then the comm. panel on his arm began to flash and he stood. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”

Vortex groaned. Now that was just not fair. He grasped after the stimulation from his welded plating and new wiring, but it wasn’t enough. He needed something intense, something harsh. He ground his rotors into the mud, but there were no handy sharp rocks, and all it did was make him feel grubby.

“Frag.” He huffed and heaved himself to his feet. Fuel reserves at 32%, laser core at 64%, not bad. Hydraulic pressure left something to be desired, but as long as he didn’t need to fight Omega Supreme to get his weapons back, it should be OK.

As for the pressure in a certain other part of his anatomy, that was more than a little frustrating. He stretched and spun his rotors, hoping to disperse the charge, but all he managed to disperse was a spray of pinky grey mud.

First Aid wandered back, his comm panel snapping flush to his arm. “There’s a storm coming,” he said. He stopped out of arm’s reach. “Groove says it’s bad. We should find somewhere to hole up for a while.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Vortex replied, before his CPU caught up with his audials. His rotors shivered, dripping mud. “But hey, if you think so. Where d’you wanna go?”


	2. Chapter 2

The crash site was close: a large granite cliff, smoke-streaked and strewn with broken parts. A few fragments had dropped to the ground, blackened and partially melted. Vortex snickered; amazingly, the emergency distress beacon still pulsed, a little red light flashing from a chunk of the cockpit.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” First Aid commented, giving the remains what Vortex could only translate as a sad glance.

“Sure am,” Vortex agreed. _And I’m lucky to be following you somewhere gloomy and secluded,_ he thought. _Ain’t life great?_

His port still ached. And his valve, and everything else that could possibly be turned to an erotic use. But hey, they were about to be shut off from the rest of the universe for however long the storm lasted. The only term he could apply to that was ‘opportunity’.

“There’s a hollow over here,” First Aid said.

Vortex gave his aft an appreciative glance. “Uhuh?” It had better be cosy.

“Wow, it’s a cave… I’ve never really seen caves in this kind of rock before.” First Aid vanished into the shadows. “It’s a bit small,” he said, his voice echoing.

“It’ll do,” Vortex called. He shook his rotors again, dislodging more of the mud.

“Maybe we should find somewhere bigger,” First Aid said, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Fragged if I can see anywhere,” Vortex said, not bothering to look. He grabbed a chunk of his ex-spaceship and hauled it over to the hollow. “Wind’s getting up already,” he said, as a very light breeze played across his rotors. “This’ll stop the crud gettin’ in.”

First Aid nodded. “Good plan,” he said, and sounded like he meant it. The cave wasn’t deep, perhaps as long as Onslaught’s cab. First Aid sat at the back on a smooth-looking boulder, his knees up and his arms wrapped around them. Not exactly defensive, but closed and wary. At least he’d cut the light from his headlamps; the only illumination was from the three bright moons and the glow of their visors.

The moonlight vanished as Vortex wedged the chunk of hull tight against the fissure. He waited for his optics to recalibrate, then flicked his rotors again.

“Frag,” he said, contriving to sound believably distressed.

First Aid perked up. “What is it?”

“Got something stuck under my swash plate,” Vortex groaned. “Ugh, that ain’t comfy.” He glanced over at the Protectobot; oh Sigma, so very hot. “I don’t suppose you’d…”

“Of course. Just lean against that rock and I’ll have a look.”

If it was any other mech, Vortex could expect a hand to stray between his thighs, hot air venting against the back of his neck. But not the Protectobot. His touch was deft, confident, and completely professional. And he had his gun holstered at his hip, ready for him to grab and fire. Cautious, then, and rightly so – but it didn’t make him hesitate.

Vortex sighed against the rock. Each movement of those incredibly hot little medic hands made his circuits tingle and his rotors twitch. His hardware still burned, but it was a good burn, the kind he could wait a while to act on. Tantalising, just like the Protectobot.

“Aha,” First Aid said. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Mmmmm, I’m not sure,” Vortex said. “You wanna wriggle your fingers around a bit, see if there’s anything else.”

“And risk something falling into your engine?” First Aid said. He flicked a chunk of dried mud at the wall. “I don’t think so.”

“It’d be like creative sabotage,” Vortex suggested. “For the greater good of the Autobot cause or some scrap like that.”

First Aid huffed. “I don’t do sabotage. And we have a ceasefire, I couldn’t condone it.”

“Please?” Vortex said, aiming for a mixture of friendly and needy that Autobots seemed to go for. “It’s really gettin’ to me.”

“All right,” First Aid sighed. “But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Vortex grinned, and waggled his rotors. He hadn’t expected the medic to give in that easily. And that exasperation, he sounded so world-weary, as though First Aid was used to mechs who pushed and pushed until they got what they wanted.

“Oooooh, yeah, just like that!” He slumped, his knees banging against the rock. His swash plate tilted back and forth as First Aid manipulated it, trying to loosen the phantom extra piece of mud. “Mmmmmmm…”

“Copters!” First Aid snapped. “All right, you’re done. There’s nothing else there.”

Vortex turned around, the tingle fading. “You often have problems with rotaries?” he said. He settled in the middle of the floor, his back against the boulder. Wherever First Aid sat, the confined space ensured he’d be within arm’s reach.

“Only the cocky ones,” First Aid responded.

Vortex stretched out. “Oh yeah?” Then, before the Protectobot could respond, “You got really nice hands, you know that?”

“Um…” Blue light danced in the gloom as First Aid looked around for somewhere to sit. “I, uh…”

“I like a mech with nice hands. Oh hey, you know what just occurred to me?”

“No?” First Aid flinched as a metallic booming filled the cave. “Just the wind,” he said, taking a long slow stream of air through his vents. “That got up quickly.”

“You gonna sit down?” Vortex patted the ground beside him. “We got a ceasefire, like you said. I’ll only bite if you ask.”

That seemed to work. First Aid gave him a stern look that Vortex was beginning to guess was reserved for cocky copters, and sat stiffly on the floor, his back against the wall.

“Now,” Vortex said, as a hail of wind-borne grit pattered against the cave’s temporary door. He resisted running the back of his hand along that glossy red paint. “You wanna know what just occurred to me?”

For a moment, it looked as though First Aid was about to say ‘no’. But instead he said, “I’m not sure. Does it involve your swash plate? Or any other parts that might endanger you if I try to fix them without the appropriate tools?”

Vortex shook his head, then grinned. “I never said thank you.”

“Huh?”

“For repairing me.” Vortex tugged a cloth and a little tin out of a compartment, the scent of polish filling the cave.

“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” First Aid said. His fingers twitched, and his visor flickered. “I, uh, I don’t require thanking.”

“But I want to,” Vortex said. _Oh frag, how I want to…_ “Give me your hands.”

“What? Oh no, it’s perfectly all right, you don’t need to-”

“C’mon. It’s the least I can do after you were all good to me. It’ll be nice, I promise.”

“I don’t know,” First Aid said, obviously meaning ‘no’, but too polite to say it. Vortex almost laughed. So hot, and so very easy to wear down; it was a great combination.

“I bet your hands are all covered in mud and scrap, and it’s totally my fault.”

“Well,” First Aid said. “I don’t have any cleansing equipment… And I suppose a polish can’t hurt, provided it’s _just_ a polish.”

“Course it can’t,” Vortex said, electing to ignore that final part. Slowly, he eased First Aid’s hands away from his knees. Oh wow, the feel of those fingers. So much smaller than his, and so very fragile. He could crush them even without full hydraulic pressure. Not that he wanted to, not now, anyway. Not yet.

He shuffled closer, and First Aid tensed, but he didn’t try to snatch back his hands, and he didn’t object when Vortex worked the cloth slowly and carefully over each finely constructed metal plate.

By increments, the medic relaxed. Relieved, probably, that Vortex hadn’t made a more obvious move. But these things were best achieved step by step; First Aid wasn’t like Bumblebee, “Wanna frag?” wouldn’t work with this mech. He’d likely bolt, or freeze up, and those were the opposite of what Vortex wanted.

“That nice?” Vortex asked.

First Aid gave the slightest of nods, but didn’t say anything. He did, however, tense just a little each time Vortex touched the tips of his fingers or the base of his thumbs.

That was an observation worth saving to long-term storage. As was the way his mask moved every so often, as though he was about to speak but thought better of it.

“Makes me wonder,” Vortex said. “Do medics always have such sensitive hands?” Without warning, he licked the tip of First Aid’s index finger.

The Autobot stared, apparently too shocked to comment. Vortex tugged the whole finger into his mouth, running his glossa along the underside.

First Aid managed coherent speech on the second attempt. “What are you… You really shouldn’t…”

“Feels good, though, doesn’t it?” Vortex said, going for the medic’s thumb. He kept a loose grip on First Aid’s other hand, lightly stroking his palm.

“I… uh… That’s more than a polish…” the medic was flustered, clearly out of his depth. Vortex wondered what was running through his mind. Visions, perhaps, of what might happen if he did try to take back his hands. Fear of violence, concern about the kind of force that could be applied, and the physical superiority of his temporary ally. A touch of guilt at each pleasurable sensation.

Vortex didn't know if First Aid regularly interfaced outside of his team. He knew that Sandstorm had blagged his way into Protectobot HQ, and into the bunk with First Aid and Blades. Lucky slagger. But Sandstorm was like a primal force of fragging; Vortex couldn’t imaging anyone saying no.

Even doctor easily-flustered here, with his interrupted ventilation and the almost imperceptible crackle of static escaping from his vocaliser.

“You know what?” Vortex whispered, leaning close. He flicked the end of his glossa across First Aid’s palm. “I heard you got a thing for bad boy copters.” It was one of Sandstorm’s terms, something he’d picked up from the Earth-based Autobots.

“I…I’m not sure how that’s relevant,” First Aid said, and there it was again, that glimmer of static.

“So you do then,” Vortex commented. He held First Aid’s thumb between his denta, his voice reverberating through that delicate plating. “Hold still, I wanna get comfy.”

It was amazing how making it sound like a reasonable request worked to stifle objection. First Aid did indeed hold still, although the slightest quiver passed through his hands as Vortex swung a leg over and trapped the medic’s thighs between his knees.

“You OK there?” Vortex asked. He leaned forward, sucking hard for a moment on the pad of First Aid’s thumb.

The medic just stared.

“Heh, that thing comes off right?” Vortex said, nudging the edge of the Autobot’s mask.

First Aid flinched. “What? Why?”

“’Cause I wanna make sure you’re enjoying yourself.” Vortex’s fingers strayed, bumping gently against the rubber of a shoulder tire. His engine revved, louder than the noise of the storm. “Mmmm, bouncy!”

“I, uh… Perhaps, um…” First Aid squirmed, and Vortex squeezed, hard enough to force a redistribution of pneumatic pressure. “Oh goodness!”

“You like that?” Letting go of First Aid’s well-polished hands, Vortex took the cloth on an exploratory outing along the Protectobot’s transformation seams.

“I really think you should stop!” First Aid blurted.

Vortex contrived to look as disappointed as he could. “You don’t like it?” he said.

“I…” The cloth travelled further down, following the outline of First Aid’s pelvic armour. “We shouldn’t…”

And there it was: ‘ _we_ shouldn’t’, not ‘you shouldn’t’. Indication that the Autobot considered himself complicit, that he was – even if only a little bit – enjoying himself. A minor victory, but an essential one, and a very good signal of the ratio of guilt to arousal currently zipping around his processor.

“Why not?” Vortex asked. He aimed the delicate buzz of his EM field to pulse through the cloth, batting at the sensors in the seam. “Because it’s wrong?”

The medic squirmed some more, hands pressed against the rock. “Ooooof! Um, really… Really need you to stop that now!” The words crackled, urgent but indistinct.

“Why?” Vortex stroked the row of sensors on the inside of First Aid’s wheel rim. “Give me one good reason why we can’t have some fun.”

The Autobot shuddered, and his optics flickered, making his visor flash. “Because I said so!” he cried.

Now that actually _was_ a good reason, or at least a reason that Vortex should take notice of if he wanted to keep on fragging Autobots. “That’s a shame.” He stilled his hands, but flared his field hard. The answering gasp was music to his audials. “Sorry, didn’t mean to do that. You just… you have this effect on me.”

“Unhuh.” First Aid shook his head. “It’s OK, just, uh…”

 _Don’t do it again?_ Vortex thought. “Only OK?” he said, and did it again, harder this time. His thumb drifted over First Aid’s pelvic plating; there was bound to be a manual release down there somewhere.

“Eeep!” The Autobot wriggled. “It wasn’t, um, terrible, just… unexpected! Oh nonono…” First Aid’s helm connected with the rock, his throat bared and his optics blank for one long moment. His fans kicked in, and his vents heaved. “Oh gosh!”

“Heh, you’re _really_ cute,” Vortex said. He pushed closer, enjoying the heat of First Aid’s engine, and the subtle tactile buzz of the medic’s energy field. He pressed his lips to the smooth white armour of the Protectobot’s throat. “Connect with me,” he whispered.

“I…” Flustered again, lost for words. First Aid bucked as Vortex flared his energy field once more, so much closer this time, so much more intense.

“I wanna feel the recoil,” Vortex said. He licked his way to the base of First Aid’s helm, glossa tickling below the medic’s audial, while he arched his back, giving himself room to press a palm against the cover of First Aid’s conventional interface hatch. The thought of plugging in made his own connector spark. “You wanna slide that open for me?”

The storm whipped up, battering the fragment of hull and making it clatter. First Aid shook his head, his optics dim and his vents hitching with every intake. He braced his hands against Vortex’s shoulders, but didn’t push.

“Too intimate?” Vortex said. “I get it.” He left the panel alone, opting instead to feel out the contours of those firm and bouncy shoulder tires, while his other hand continued to probe the seams of First Aid’s pelvic armour. “How about here?” he said, emphasising his question with yet another quick and brutal field flare.

The Autobot wailed, clutching the back of Vortex’s helm. “Ungh! Um, I don’t… Ooooooh!”

That was promising. As was the subtle hiss of moving metal parts. First Aid panted, hot air breezing from his vents. But it wasn’t his pelvic armour sliding aside.

He tugged Vortex’s head back, his hands trembling. He’d removed his mask.

Frag, he was well made. Wide blue optics under that gleaming expanse of glass, and an expression of mingled surprise and trepidation on his fine, smooth face. He was biting his lip, and Vortex wondered if he always did that when he was nervous.

“I won’t hurt you,” Vortex said. _Yet_ , he thought. “All you have to do is trust me.” He increased the pressure on the pelvic seam, and repositioned himself to enable the Autobot to move his legs; First Aid’s optics widened. “I can make this so very good for you.”

The Autobot’s lips quivered, a delicious hint of internal conflict. Then he gave the tiniest of nods, and the plating beneath Vortex’s fingers slid aside.

His uncertainty was delightful. The unstoppable shaking of his hands; the tremor in his legs as Vortex eased his thighs apart. Vortex held First Aid’s gaze, noting each subtle flicker as he stroked the plating just around the Autobot’s valve.

First Aid was scared, that much was clear. Aroused too, but the fear held sway. His spike was slow to emerge, teased out by the tingling fluctuations of Vortex’s energy field. Every third cycle of First Aid’s vents, Vortex treated him to another searing flare. And each time, he was rewarded with a tighter grip on the back of his helm, a tiny gasp, a slight thrust of the Autobot’s hips.

The tremors never died down, and the wide-eyed uncertainty persisted.

It was intoxicating. Vortex’s own spike burned, his valve ached. He wanted – needed – connection, fulfilment. But he had to be careful; hurt one Autobot in a ceasefire, and he’d lose everything he’d built. All that false trust, all those lies.

He’d have the data, sure, but intel expired fast. Tastes changed, personalities developed; likes and dislikes, friendships and enmities, everything was in a state of flux. Getting close to the Autobots helped him to know them, which would help him to break them when the time came.

And until then… He smiled as he eased a cautious finger past the rim of First Aid’s valve. Hot metal clenched, and the Autobot whimpered. Vortex let his own spike free, but kept the medic’s optics on his, and pushed his thighs a little further apart.

Another field flare, and he prolonged it this time, drew it out until the Autobot shuddered and moaned. Then he tried a second finger, easing, stretching. Keeping everything slow and gentle.

It took a while, but eventually First Aid began to relax.

“That good?” Vortex whispered as his fingertips tingled, sliding over nodes crisp with current.

First Aid nodded. Probably didn’t trust himself to speak. His hands, oh those gorgeous little medic hands… They began to explore, devoid of their earlier certainty. Tentatively, they felt out the flanges on his helm, coasting over the thin segmented plating at the back of his neck. Then up to his rotors, the touch so light and soft and so very different from anything Vortex was used to.

The touch alone would never have been enough to get his engine going, but knowing whose hands those were, having the Protectobot medic under him, spread and open and oh so nervous – it was perfect.

“It’s good,” First Aid said softly. “Just...” He moaned, clenching again as Vortex withdrew his fingers.

“Just what?”

“Be careful!” First Aid gasped at the hot press of Vortex’s spike.

“Relax,” Vortex whispered, and slid the tip inside. First Aid clung to him, engine growling and valve clenched. Frag, the ‘bot was tight. Tight and warm and slick, and Vortex just wanted to pound him into the rock, take him fast and rough, and slag the consequences.

“Please,” First Aid whispered. “Gently!”

Vortex nodded, unable to push a single word through the crackle of his vocaliser. He edged forward again, sliding an arm around First Aid’s waist, holding him still. Then he began to move, gently, slowly. He didn’t force the valve to accommodate him – much as he really wanted to – but encouraged it, teasing as he eased himself gradually deeper.

“Unf! Oh…” First Aid re-angled his hips, braced against Vortex’s arm. Each shallow thrust prompted a whimper of surprise, each surge of current drew a heady moan. First Aid shuddered, his optics unfocused and his valve rippling. He cried out as the fullness of Vortex’s spike finally slid home, then lunged forward, pressing his mouth to the copter’s while his legs trembled and he tried in vain to move himself over the spike.

“Feisty!” Vortex moaned as First Aid sucked hard on his lower lip. “You are so _very_ hot.” Hot enough, it seemed, for a faster pace, but there was something about the medic, about his innocence and his newfound enthusiasm which made Vortex long to maintain the charade.

He thrust slowly, sighing as the charge built by increments, moaning against First Aid’s mouth as each sensor screamed, current streaming between the nodes. First Aid bucked his hips, urging the spike deeper, cycling tight as Vortex withdrew, then relaxing again as he slid back in.

And all the while, First Aid kissed him, lips tight to his own, sucking and nibbling as the storm hammered against broken metal, and the cave echoed with the roar of their engines.


	3. Chapter 3

It was bliss. Pure and unadulterated, the kind of pleasure Vortex had forgotten he could have. There was nothing sharp about it, nothing searing or rough or any of the other things which usually categorised the way he interfaced.

Even the urge to brutality faded, as his sensor net glowed and his gyros danced, and a thousand tiny sparks discharged between the two of them.

First Aid clung to him, open, accommodating. Lost in the moment, his optics lacked focus while the echo of his fuel pumps thudded through his armour.

Each thrust was an insight into something utterly alien. Was this how the medic gave himself to Blades? Compliant, but not docile; urgent without being harsh. The fantasy lent an edge to the slow slide of Vortex’s spike.

He groaned at a gliding pressure on his rotor tips. Such careful hands; every pinch and clasp and stroke was just enough, stimulating without damaging. Just as every little movement of that softly writhing frame was the perfect enticement; intended or not, Vortex could only read it as a plea for more.

Eventually, the unrelenting pulse of his energy field combined with the hot crackle of connecting nodes to send the Autobot crashing into overload.

He was wonderful to watch and amazing to experience. The tension in his frame, the subtle vibration of cables stretched taut, the steady rhythmic clenching of his valve; it was incredible. And the more so for his vocalisations, so quiet and unselfconscious, and wholly and utterly gratifying.

Vortex held him tighter, gaze fixed on the subtle blue light of his optics. He waited until the final tremor subsided, and some of the tension released. “Connect with me now?” he asked, giving a little thrust to grind his spike against the heated sensor clusters.

The sharp “Oh!” was delightful, and the accompanying buck of First Aid’s hips was completely unexpected. “Mmmmm…” The medic ground against him, that blue light flaring as he refocused his visual sensors. “No,” he said through static. “And stop asking.”

That was bold, a pleasing hint of the medic’s less obvious strengths. It was tempting to break him, to push and push until his only option would be to capitulate. But that would be counterproductive; better to leave that one boundary inviolate, to encourage First Aid to downgrade him from dangerous enemy to just another bad boy copter.

And besides, First Aid continued to move himself on the spike, still open, still complicit. Like the soft little whimpers during overload, his continued enjoyment was immensely gratifying.

It was the kind of behaviour Vortex liked to encourage.

“Your loss,” he said, and picked up the pace.

“I’m… Ooh!... not losing out on anything!” First Aid replied.

“Course not,” Vortex said, and ran the tip of his glossa over the medic’s lips, earning himself a gentle bite. He sighed as First Aid grabbed his rotors; a delicious, warm shiver coursed through his spike, and the strength seemed to ebb from his arms. And, oh Sigma, the Autobot was smiling. Actually _smiling_ , those tasty little lips curved in a way that made Vortex’s engine growl and his blades shudder. “Oh frag,” he said. “I love it when you do that.”

Warm air gusted as the medic’s fans whirred. “Uhuh?” he replied. His frame tensed again, face pressed to Vortex’s shoulder as he felt down the copter’s back, apparently straining to reach his rotor hub. But Vortex wanted this to last. And he wanted the medic’s face where he could see it. Where he could watch every nuanced shift of First Aid’s expression and guess what was going on underneath.

“What do you say to being lifted?” Vortex asked, another small hint that he knew about boundaries and was willing to respect them.

“Uh…” the medic replied, no longer striving to edge his hands further down Vortex’s rotors.

“I wanna lift you,” Vortex replied, pulling back a little to put his weight entirely on his knees; he unwound his arm from the Autobot’s middle, letting him slump back onto the shallow curve of the granite boulder. His spike ached as it hit the air. “I won’t drop you, promise.”

“Mmm!” First Aid bit his lip again and hugged his knees tight around Vortex’s waist, but he had neither the strength nor the leverage to tug the copter back inside him. Then he wiggled in a wholly different way, and the rotor petting ceased completely.

“What’s up?” Vortex said, as he took the opportunity to let his interface components cool a little, and his optics take a tour of First Aid’s plating.

“This rock,” the medic replied. “It isn’t quite as comfortable as I had initially thought… Oh!” He bit his lip again and arched off the boulder as Vortex let his fingers follow his optics. Then the copter pushed forward just a little, nudging the very end of his spike against the rim of First Aid’s valve, while his hands felt out the planes and contours of the Autobot’s waist.

First Aid wriggled again, a high keening sound emerging from his vocaliser.

It was so hard not to increase the contact; Vortex wouldn’t have to go slowly this time; there would be no need for caution. He edged a little further in, and the jolt of pleasure as First Aid clenched around him almost knocked him offline. Venting hard, he gently squeezed the Autobot’s waist. “How about I rescue you from the evil rock?”

“Ooooooh… mmmmmm…” At first there was no indication that First Aid had heard him, just the continued stream of small, happy noises, and a metallic sigh as he reached up again for the rotors. Then that smile came back. “That’s the corniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“That’s not a ‘no’,” Vortex said.

“No,” First Aid replied. “It isn’t.”

 _Right answer,_ Vortex thought, and pulled out completely. But only long enough to scoop up the Autobot and press him against the water-worn wall of the cave. “Better?” he said, hooking his hands under the medic’s aft and lifting him to just the right position.

“Uhuh!” First Aid nodded, and clung to Vortex’s neck. He wriggled a bit, then stiffened. Feeling vulnerable, probably, more so than when he was on the floor. He murmured something, but the storm battered against the cave’s temporary door, and Vortex didn’t catch it.

But he did catch the increased pace of First Aid’s ventilation, the hot gusts of air against the sensors on his helm. Vortex held out as long as he could, teasing the tip of his spike along the red hot nodes at the rim of the medic’s valve. The sensation was amazing, little jolts of charge picking up between them. First Aid squirmed in his hands, his valve clenched tight as his hands gripped Vortex’s shoulders.

Vortex pushed up and into him, savouring every instant. It was smooth this time, slippery and constrictive, and absolutely perfect. First Aid moaned and shuddered, and Vortex gave him a moment to adjust.

Just like before, the medic relaxed by increments. His hands began to roam, his lips too. He didn’t cling any more, but appeared to trust Vortex to keep him at just the right angle. Then his fingers found Vortex’s tail rotors, and everything dissolved in a haze of intense new input.

It didn’t stop there. Vortex groaned, his vision fragmenting. He couldn’t help but increase the pace, thrusting hard as the medic’s hot fingers wrapped around his blades, stroking and turning them. Tugging them too, and Vortex thrust harder, the impact shuddering through First Aid’s frame.

Then First Aid squeezed hard with his hand and his valve, and Vortex hadn’t a hope of holding on any longer.

The overload was unbelievable, a soaring crash of current that seared through his circuits and knocked out his visual feed. Overheat warnings warred with rebooting systems, and he reached for the wall to steady himself. It was more luck than judgment that he also kept a hold of the Autobot, their hardware still locked together, still conducting. Deep, pulsing aftershocks echoed through him, and it was all he could do to keep upright.

Frag, that was good.

“Mmmm?” First Aid murmured, as Vortex’s visual feed finally came back. “Perhaps it would be safer if we…?” His fingers tightened again around Vortex’s tail rotors, and Vortex conceded the floor would indeed be the best place for them. Especially if the medic was going to keep on doing that.

Slowly, and with a large measure of regret, he eased his spike free. But there was nothing to regret about refusing to put the Autobot down, instead opting to lower himself gently to the floor, leaning back against the large boulder with First Aid on top of him. He flashed the evilest grin he could manage, and refused to let go. “Like that?” he said.

To his surprise, First Aid didn’t struggle. He just wriggled until, presumably, he was comfortable, and resumed playing with Vortex’s tail rotors.

“Copters,” he huffed, sounding tired and contented and just a little exasperated.

“You wanna turn over?” Vortex suggested, then continued when his only response was a drowsy mumble. “The little blades are all yours, but you gotta turn over for me.”

First Aid raised his head. “Why?”

“You’ll see,” Vortex said, and through the muzzy post-interface haze his processor was already feeding him a dozen different scenarios in which he could test exactly how far the Autobot could now be pushed. He patted First Aid on the aft. “It’ll be good, I promise…”

“Aren’t you tired?” First Aid said, but he was already shifting around, wriggling again until the complex geometry of his back slotted relatively neatly around Vortex’s pectoral vent. It wasn’t exactly tessellation, but it must have been comfortable because First Aid sighed.

“No,” Vortex lied, wrapping his right arm around the medic, putting his tail rotors within easy reach. “Are you?”

“A little depleted,” the medic replied, then squeaked as Vortex took a firm hold of his sadly neglected spike. He thumbed the tip, smearing lubricant along his fingers. “Goodness!” First Aid started wriggling again, all drowsiness vanished from his voice. “I… um…”

“Not _too_ depleted,” Vortex said. “I hope.”

* * *

Vortex came online to the squeal of bending metal and the press of rock against his back. This wasn’t HQ, and it didn’t seem to be Charr; where the frag was he? And who the frag was lying on top of… Oh. Yeah. His databanks finally engaged, and everything came crashing back.

 _Awesome._

He sighed and wrapped his arms more tightly around First Aid. The medic was still in recharge – surprisingly, considering the noise – sprawled face-down over Vortex’s chest. The soft purr of his systems spread a pleasant vibration through Vortex’s internals, and gave him absolutely no desire to move.

Especially not as the rescue party had obviously arrived.

“Aid?” the cry was muffled, accompanied by another loud squeal as the chunk of spaceship wedged in the cave entrance became very gradually un-wedged. “Aid? Can you hear me?”

First Aid moaned and stretched. He murmured something, and Vortex stroked his helm. No point him coming online just yet.

“Aid?” Groove’s voice became more urgent. “Aid, seriously, answer me!”

“Mmmfuh?” First Aid said. Vortex leaned his head back against the rock and prepared to feign unconsciousness. But not before making sure his interface hatch was closed.

“Slaggit!” Groove yelled, and the metal screamed once more. “Gah!” There was a clang, and light seared through the cave mouth. “Aid? Aid, talk to me… Oh. Uh…”

Vortex didn’t risk bringing his optics back online. Groove’s expression would be priceless, but it’d hardly be anything he hadn’t seen before. Best just to lay there, poor exhausted bad boy copter, no threat to anyone.

“Huh?” First Aid stiffened, the pressure on Vortex’s abdomen shifting as he moved. “Groove?”

“Um…” Groove seemed lost for words. “I… I got through the bond that you were OK, but...”

Vortex murmured as though slowly booting up, and took the opportunity to casually grope First Aid’s backside.

“Um, it’s...” First Aid squirmed, then apparently came to his senses and stood up, moving his aft out of hands’ reach. “I can explain?”

Groove sighed. “He’s got rotors, I get the picture. OK, is he faking it again or is he really offline this time?”

“He’s faking it,” First Aid said.

“How the scrap can you tell?” Vortex said. He switched his optics back on and treated Groove to a suggestive grin. “Hey there. Wanna come snuggle down? I got room for two…”

First Aid sighed, and Groove folded his arms and scowled. “Energy source,” he said. “We need it.” But he didn’t appear angry any more, just annoyed, with possibly the slightest hint of suppressed amusement.

Vortex stretched, his grin turning into a satisfied smile. He liked the look of that.


End file.
